


It's You

by LordWindermear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Drama, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-16 12:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7267978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordWindermear/pseuds/LordWindermear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's soulmate is Sherlock, but Sherlock doesn't have a soulmate? Johnlock AU where the night after you meet your soulmate their name shows up tattooed on your arm. I will try and update pretty regularly, this should end up fairly long. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know that it starts out pretty slow, sorry about that. I felt like I needed to do that to set the story up. I hope you like it!

‘John?” Mike asked, “Earth to John, are you with me?’ 

‘Yeah, sorry. Just spaced out for a second.’

‘That was more than a second. Is everything alright?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Bloody tired is all.’

‘Well alright then. So what’ve you gotten up to lately?’

‘Not much. Nothing ever seems to happen to me. I can’t find a job. I might not even be able to stay in London.’

 

‘Why not?’

‘Flats are too expensive on nothing but an army pension. I’d gladly move in with someone, but I doubt there’s anyone willing to share with me.’

A curious expression crossed Mike’s face, but then he smiled and said, ‘You know, you’re the second person to say that to me today.’

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

‘Now, before you meet this man, I should warn you. He’s a bit… well, odd.’ Mike’s voice took on a strange quality, and John couldn’t help but wonder what he meant.

‘Odd?’ John asked.

‘Oh, he’s perfectly alright, really. Just takes some getting used to.’ Mike pushed open the door to the morgue. John followed him in, then immediately stepped back at the sight of a tall man beating a corpse with a riding crop as a small, brown- haired woman watched. ‘Please tell me that’s not him,’ John whispered.

‘No, that’s him,’ Mike whispered back, ‘Told you he was odd. Brilliant, though.’

Meanwhile, the tall man had set down his riding crop and was dusting off his hands. ‘That should do it,’ he said, ‘Molly, I’ll be in the lab. Text me if bruises form in the next twenty minutes.’

‘I will,’ she said, ‘Um, Sherlock?’

‘Yes Molly?’

‘I was wondering if, um, you’d like to have coffee.’

‘Yes please. Black, two sugars.’

‘...Okay,’ Molly said in a small voice. Sherlock didn’t seem to hear her.

‘Is he always like this?’ John asked.

‘Unfortunately yes,’ Mike replied, ‘But he’s a good bloke, really.’

The man, whose name was Sherlock, apparently, (Of all the bloody things to name your son, John thought, Why pick Sherlock? I mean really.) strode past them into the hall. ‘Hello Mike,’ he said, ‘Follow me. We’ll talk upstairs.’ John followed, a little ways behind, limping a little as he walked. Blasted leg. Why can’t it just leave me alone? 

Upstairs in the lab, Sherlock turned towards them, ‘Mike, I need to borrow your phone,’ he said.

‘Why can’t you use the landline?’ Mike asked, ‘It works perfectly well.’

‘I prefer to text.’

Mike sighed. ‘Here,’ John said, ‘You can use mine.’ He held his phone out. Sherlock took it and began typing.‘Who’s this?’ he asked as he worked.

‘Oh, this is an old friend of mine. John Watson.’ Mike answered.

‘Hmm.’ Sherlock folded his fingers underneath his chin and stared at John for a moment. John was struck by how intense his gaze was, almost as if the man was reading his mind.

‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Sorry?’ John said.

‘Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?’

‘Afghanistan- Sorry, how did you know?’

Just then, the door opened and Molly came in holding a steaming coffee mug. ‘Ah, coffee. Thank you, Molly,’ Sherlock said. He shut down John’s phone and walked over to return it and take the coffee.

‘You’re welcome, Sherlock,’ Molly said, and turned to leave.

‘How do you feel about the violin?’ Sherlock asked.

For a moment, John was confused. He thought Sherlock must have been talking to Molly, but when he looked he saw that she had already left. ‘I’m sorry, what?’ John asked.

‘I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end,’ Sherlock said, turning to John, ‘Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.’

John looked at Mike, ‘Oh, you ... you told him about me?’

‘Not a word,’ Mike said. 

‘Then who said anything about flatmates?’ John asked.

Sherlock picked up a long, black coat from a chair. As he put it on, he said, ‘I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.’

‘How did you know about Afghanistan?’ John asked, puzzled. 

‘Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it,’ Sherlock continued, wrapping a scarf around his neck and ignoring John’s question. 

He walked towards the door. ‘We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.’

‘Is that it?’ John asked.

Sherlock turned back towards him. ‘Is that what?’

‘We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?’

‘Problem?’

John shook his head, unable to believe the strange man in front of him. ‘We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your last name.’ 

‘I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.’

John stared at the floor, a little awkwardly. How on earth?

‘That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?’ Sherlock said, smugly. He walked out of the room, then turned back to John, ‘The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.’ He winked at John and turned to Mike, ‘Afternoon,’ he said.

Mike waved after him and the door slammed shut. John stared at him in disbelief. ‘Yeah. He’s always like that,’ Mike said.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John returned home, his head still reeling from his encounter with Sherlock Holmes. Who is this man anyway? he thought. Can’t be very many people with that name… Let’s see… He typed the name into his search engine. After almost an hour of scrolling through Sherlock’s website, The Science of Deduction, he sat back in his chair and let out a short laugh. Well, whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t that. That night, while he slept, he dreamed about running, a chase. Sherlock was with him, and they were on the tail of someone dangerous. It was the best dream he had had in ages. 

John opened his eyes slowly, and yawned. Sunlight had forced it’s way through the cracks at the edges of the curtains, waking him. He lay in bed a while longer, thinking maybe he’d try and sleep some more, but after a while he decided it wasn’t happening and got up. It wasn’t until he was in the bathroom, squeezing toothpaste onto his toothbrush, that he saw it. Black ink against his skin. There it was, written along the length of his left forearm in perfect copperplate. A name. Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

‘Oh my God!’ John stared at his arm, shocked. The toothbrush, forgotten, slipped from his hand. His first thought was, Sherlock. I knew there was something about him when we met, but this? The second thing was,Wait a minute. I’m not gay! But then he wondered. It had always been difficult for him to stay in relationships with women. None of them ever really lasted. He would start out thinking, Maybe this time, maybe she’s the one. And within a few weeks or months, without fail, the whole thing would have fallen apart or he would’ve lost interest. So maybe… maybe this could be real. 

The soulmate tattoos were rare. Only twenty or thirty percent of the population had them. If you were lucky enough to meet your soulmate, a tattoo of their name would appear on your forearm overnight, in irremovable black ink. John had given up long ago on it ever happening for him, but there it was, plain as day. Why Sherlock, though? John asked himself. Now that he thought about it, it almost made sense. Sherlock had seemed to know so much about him right away, as if he could read John’s thoughts. And the mystery and eccentricity of his manner certainly was magnetic… So Sherlock is my soulmate, John thought, I wonder if he’s seen my name on his arm yet. How am I supposed to act when I see him today? I barely know the man, but apparently I’m supposed to love him. I don’t even know if I like him yet! John’s thoughts grew more and more panicked until he realized that Sherlock was probably thinking the same thing right now. We’ll figure it out together, John decided, We’re soulmates. Everything is going to be ok. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John was giddy as he arrived on Baker Street. He had rushed through his morning routine and then, realizing that he still had several hours before he was supposed to meet Sherlock, had gone through it a second time for good measure. He had debated what to wear, finally deciding on his favorite jumper. This was it. Something he’d given up on years ago had finally happened. He’d met his soulmate! Even though he still didn’t know much about Sherlock, and didn’t even know how he felt about his soulmate being a man, John was excited. He stepped out of his taxi onto the sidewalk outside of 221A. A few moments later, a second taxi pulled up and Sherlock got out. John’s face lit up in a wide smile. ‘Good morning, Sherlock!’ he said.

‘Good morning, John,’ Sherlock replied, ‘Shall we?’ He knocked on the door, and John wondered how he could be so nonchalant at a time like this. John himself couldn’t help but shake a little. Sherlock turned around. His expression changed slightly and for a moment he looked almost confused. He’s finally going to say something, John thought, but when Sherlock opened his mouth all he said was, ‘John, what on earth are you wearing?’ 

John looked down, cheeks burning, worried he had somehow managed to put on his trousers inside out or something. He didn’t see anything wrong, so he said, ‘This? This is my favorite jumper.’ 

Sherlock snorted. 

‘What?’ John asked, ‘What’s wrong with it?’ Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but the door to the flat was opened by a kind- faced woman with a warm smile. ‘Sherlock!’ she said, her voice filled with warmth, ‘Come in, you two, come in.’

John followed Sherlock inside. He was confused, why hadn’t Sherlock said anything yet? It didn’t make sense. He wasn’t acting any differently, even though everything had changed. It was almost as if Sherlock didn’t know… John wondered if it was possible that Sherlock hadn’t seen the tattoo yet. He supposed it was, the man always seemed to wear long sleeves, and if you weren’t paying attention… That didn’t make any sense though. Sherlock noticed everything.

The woman, whose name was Mrs. Hudson, showed them around the flat. It seemed like a nice place, a bit dusty, more than a bit cluttered, (Sherlock had apparently already moved his things into it, and they were stacked in a rather haphazard fashion all over the flat.) but nice. John had a feeling that he would like it there. They had sat down in the living room, waiting for a cuppa promised by Mrs. Hudson, when a man in a suit jogged up the stairs and into the room. ‘Lestrade,’ Sherlock said, ‘There’s been a fourth, I take it. Where?’

‘Brixton. Lauriston Gardens,’ Lestrade, who John took to be a police inspector, said.

‘What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.’

‘You know how they never leave notes?’ Lestrade asked.

‘Yeah.’ 

‘This one did. Will you come?’

‘Who’s on forensics?’

‘It’s Anderson.’

Sherlock made a face. ‘Anderson won’t work with me,’ he said.

‘Well, he won’t be your assistant.’

‘I need an assistant.’

‘Will you come?’

‘Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind.’

‘Thank you,’ Lestrade said, then he turned and hurried off down the stairs.

‘Brilliant!’ Sherlock cried, ‘Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas!’ He began putting on his coat and scarf excitedly. ‘Mrs Hudson, I’ll be late. Might need some food.’

‘I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper,’ Mrs Hudson said reproachfully.

‘Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!’ And with that, he was out the door. 

‘Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same,’ Mrs. Hudson said, turning to John. He was confused for a moment at her implication that he and Sherlock were together. How could she know? he wondered, but brushed it off as coincidence. 

‘But you’re more the sitting-down type, I can tell,’ Mrs. Hudson continued, ‘I’ll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg.’

‘Damn my leg!’ John shouted. For the past few moments since Sherlock had left, a feeling of frustration had been growing in John, and now it exploded from him in a rush of air. ‘Sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘It’s just sometimes this bloody thing …’

‘I understand, dear,’ Mrs Hudson said affectionately, ‘I’ve got a hip.’

‘Cup of tea’d be lovely, thank you,’ John said.

‘Just this once, dear. I’m not your housekeeper.’ Just as Mrs. Hudson disappeared into the kitchen, the door banged open and Sherlock rushed into the room. ‘You’re a doctor,’ he said, ‘In fact, you’re an Army doctor.’

‘Yes,’ John said.

‘Any good?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Very good.’

‘Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths.’

‘Mmm, yes.’

‘Bit of trouble too, I bet.’

‘Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.’

‘Wanna see some more?’

‘Oh God, yes.’ Sherlock grinned, spun on his heel, and ran down the stairs. Without hesitation, John followed him. This is why we’re soulmates, he thought, Trouble. We can’t get enough of it.


	3. Chapter 3

A few hours later, John found himself walking down a busy street in the dark, attempting without success to hail a taxi. His leg hurt, and he was tired, and with every step he mentally cursed Sherlock for getting him into this. Donovan’s right, he thought, He really is a psychopath. I mean, to leave someone with a bad leg without a way home is horribly inconsiderate by itself, but when that person is your soulmate? Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe the tattoo wouldn’t be there if he checked again. As he started to roll up his sleeve, a courtesy phone started going off next to him. That’s strange, John thought. He passed it by, and the incident was nearly forgotten until it happened again. John shook his head, confused, but brushed it off as coincidence until a third phone rang. This time, he ducked inside the booth and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’ he said. A haughty voice answered him, making a few vague threats regarding Sherlock and then ordering John to get into the car. ‘What car?’ John asked, but the man on the other end had already hung up and a sleek black car had pulled up next to the phone booth. John sighed, hung up the phone, and walked to the car. The door was opened for him as he approached, and he slid inside. There was a woman in the seat next to him. She was wearing official looking clothes and he assumed she would know something about the caller or where he was being taken, but she didn’t answer when he tried to ask her. He was driven to an empty warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Inside, a tall, sharp- featured man was waiting for him. Partway through another series of vague threats about Sherlock, his phone beeped. He checked it.

Baker St. Come now if convenient.  
-SH

A few seconds later, as second text:

If inconvenient, come anyway.  
-SH

And a third:

Could be dangerous.  
-SH

‘Was that him?’ The man, who had introduced himself as Sherlock’s archenemy, asked. 

‘None of your business,’ John said.

‘So loyal already. Makes one wonder if there’s something else going on here,’ the man said, smirking. 

‘That’s none of your business either,’ John said, defensive now.The man’s controlled expression faltered for a moment, clearly he had been expecting a flat denial. He quickly regained his composure and began dangling large sums of money in front of John in exchange for information about Sherlock. When John refused his expression soured and he explained, rather unpleasantly, that the car would take John home, or ‘Wherever he wished to go.’ Hurriedly, John got back into the car and asked to be taken to Baker St. Sherlock could be in danger. He had to help him, and fast.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

‘I would be in jail without this man!’ Sherlock and John were sitting in a small Italian restaurant with a view of the corner where they hoped the killer would show up. A large, jolly man named Angelo had seated them, and now he was fluttering around their table singing Sherlock’s praises. Apparently Sherlock had gotten him off a murder charge a few years ago. ‘You went to prison anyway,’ Sherlock reminded him, ‘I got you off by proving you were across London breaking and entering!’ Angelo just laughed and said, ‘Here, I’ll bring you a candle. More romantic!’

‘Yes, thank you!’ John said without thinking. Angelo bustled off, returning a few moments later with a tealight in a glass votive. Sherlock had been staring at John since Angelo left for the candle and seemed relieved that the man had left. ‘John, I don’t want to give you a wrong impression,’ Sherlock said.

‘What?’ John asked.

‘John, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work…’ Sherlock said slowly.

‘But-’ John said, ‘But we’re…’ He trailed off, seeing the look on Sherlock’s face. ‘Never mind.’ 

Sherlock studied John’s face. He appeared to be thinking hard about something. ‘There’s something… No, not that… No… Maybe… No… Hmmm… I wonder…’ Sherlock reached across the table and grabbed John’s wrist. Before he could pull away, Sherlock had pushed up his sleeve, revealing the tattoo. ‘John,’ he said, ‘Is this… real?’

‘What?’ John asked.

‘Is it real? You haven’t faked it?’

‘No, of course I haven’t!’ John said, ‘What do you take me for?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sherlock said, ‘It’s just… I haven’t got one.’

‘What?’ John asked, ‘How can you not have got one?’

‘I don’t know, but look,’ Sherlock said. He held out his arm and pushed up his sleeve. ‘There’s nothing there, see?’

John stared at Sherlock’s arm, at the pale skin that continued unmarred into the rolled up sleeve of his shirt. There was no tattoo, not even a faint line. ‘That can’t be right,’ John said, ‘Let me see the other one.’ Sherlock nodded and rolled up his other sleeve. That arm was umarked as well. ‘What does this mean?’ John asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Sherlock answered, ‘I’ve never seen a record of this happening before.’

‘Well what are we going to do? I mean, where do we go from here?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sherlock replied, his voice somewhere between flustered and frustrated, ‘I don’t- Wait. Look!’ John followed his eyes to the street corner. A cab had stopped there but no one was getting in or out. ‘Is that him?’ John asked, ‘Is that the killer?’

‘Let’s find out,’ Sherlock said, ‘Come along, John!’ And with that, he was out of his chair and on his way to the door, John full of excitement and following eagerly.


	4. Chapter 4

John collapsed onto the bed, exhausted. It had been a long evening, to say the least. Sherlock had convinced him to stay at Baker Street. He certainly seemed interested in John, though the attention reminded John more of the attitude one would have about a sample under a microscope as opposed to anything resembling romance. And that’s fine, John thought as he sank into the mattress, Just fine. He’s too infuriating for me to ever love him anyway, maybe the whole thing is a mistake. He was still a little disappointed though. His whole life, he’d heard stories about magical romances, hoping someday he might find his own. And now, knowing that it was just a mistake… Ok, more than a little disappointed. John sighed. A murder mystery, a serial killer; who John had shot, for God’s sake… Living at Baker St. was clearly going to be far from dull. John couldn’t believe Sherlock had still wanted him to stay after what had happened at dinner. Surprisingly, things hadn’t been nearly as awkward between them as one would expect. Sherlock doesn’t have a soulmate, even though his name is on my arm. Is there really such a thing as a one- sided soulmate? It’s so strange… John groaned and rolled over. He was so tired. He could worry about it in the morning. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock didn’t sleep that night. Normally after the conclusion of a case like this one he would be tired, and sleep longer than usual. This time was different, though. John Watson. What is it about him? Sherlock had never been interested on the soulmate tattoos. He didn’t believe he was capable of love, especially not romantic love, and the absence of John’s name on his arm seemed to prove it. Still, it was odd. As far as he knew, there was no record of anything like this ever happening. What could it mean? That I am the person John Watson is meant for, that I am somehow right for him? But still, clearly in this case it doesn’t go both ways. It doesn’t make sense! Of course, the soulmate tattoos had never really made much sense to him anyway. No scientific explanation had been found for how or why they appeared. It was something most people took for granted, but Sherlock had never trusted it. It was too mysterious, not rooted in fact. His brain turned it over and over, examining and cross- checking every aspect, every potential solution. His mind was far too busy to allow for sleep, so he occupied himself by researching the soulmate tattoos. He hadn’t bothered to learn much about them before, but now he had a reason. He never could pass up a good puzzle, and this one was certainly something new. He was so easily bored, anything to occupy his mind was a blessing. So he had made sure that John decided to stay, for experimental purposes. Perhaps he could learn something from this, and besides, having John along had already been useful once. It might be worth it to bring him on other cases as well…

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

‘Morning,’ John said as he descended the last few stairs, ‘You’re up early.’

‘Mmm,’ Sherlock murmured vaguely. John went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. ‘What’ve you got to eat around here?’ he asked. Barely a second later he recoiled visibly and shouted in alarm, ‘Sherlock, there’s hands in the refrigerator!’ 

Sherlock sighed and looked up from his laptop. ‘Yes John, of course there’s hands in the refrigerator. I’m conducting an experiment.’

‘With hands? In the refrigerator?’ 

‘Stop repeating yourself, it’s annoying.’

John sighed and shut the refrigerator, his appetite gone. Yep, that tattoo is a mistake alright. He’s so… Ugh! At the moment, John could barely stand to be in the same room as Sherlock, but at the same time… There was something that had made him decide to stay, the same thing that had made him follow Sherlock the previous night. For all his lack of social grace, Sherlock was compelling. He was such a dynamic personality that John couldn’t help but be drawn in. He didn’t suppose many people could, though Sherlock didn’t seem to have that effect on people like Donovan. Or Anderson. Ugh, Anderson. Even John disliked him. 

Sherlock sighed loudly, slammed his laptop shut, and let out a long, drawn- out, ‘Boooreeed!’

‘Well I’m not sure what you want me to do about it,’ John said, ‘I haven’t even had a proper breakfast yet.’ 

Sherlock stood up and began pacing around the room. ‘I need to do something or I’ll go mad!’ he said.

John had an idea, ‘We could play a game,’ he said, ‘You like mysteries, we could play Cluedo.’ 

Sherlock said nothing, just flopped onto the couch, which John decided to take as a yes.

‘Alright then,’ he said, ‘I’ll go and see if Mrs. Hudson has a board. Maybe she even has something other than severed limbs in her kitchen.’


	5. Chapter 5

‘For the last time, Sherlock, the victim can’t have murdered himself!’ John shouted, exasperated.

‘For the last time, John, there is NO OTHER POSSIBLE EXPLANATION!’ Sherlock bellowed. He buried his face in his hands and muttered, so quietly that John could barely hear him, ‘Another game.’

‘Really?’ John asked, ‘Another game? We’ve already played five times, and all it’s doing is frustrating you.’ Secretly, John was pleased. They had been playing for almost three hours and Sherlock had yet to win a single game. John had won two, and the other three had been cut short by Sherlock’s absurd conclusions. Apparently he had never played before, or even heard of the game, which John could hardly believe considering his interest in mysteries. ‘I have to beat it,’ Sherlock said quietly, ‘It’s a stupid child’s game, I’m better than this.’ John sighed and began to shuffle the cards. When he was finished, he set them down and started to reset the board, moving all the player and weapon pieces off to the side. 

‘Let me put the cards in the envelope this time,’ Sherlock said.

‘No,’ John said, ‘You’ll look at them, and that’s cheating.’

‘This whole game is cheating!’ Sherlock shouted, then added in a much softer voice, ‘There’s no other explanation, the game is rigged, it has to be. How else could you have managed to beat me?’

‘Maybe I’m just better at it than you are,’ John said, smirking a little.

‘That can’t be it, you’re an idiot.’

John sighed. If Sherlock was going to treat him like this, he didn’t want know if he wanted anything to do with the man. ‘Fine then, Sherlock,’ he said, ‘If you can’t even admit that I beat you, I don’t want to play anymore.’

‘But I always beat everyone at everything,’ Sherlock whined, ‘It doesn’t make sense, I’m always the best.’

‘Well, clearly, you’re not the best at this.’

‘Come on, John, one more game.’

‘Fine. But only one, and if you lose, you have to admit, out loud, that I beat you.’

‘Fine.’  
‘Alright then,’ John finished setting up the game, and began marking off the cards in his hand. Sherlock studied his own hand intently, clearly determined not to lose. Forty minutes later, John was almost ready to make his accusation. Just one final check and he’d be done. Sherlock rolled the dice, and moved his piece straight to the center of the board. ‘It was Professor Plum, in the Observatory, with the Poison,’ he said in a monotone. 

‘Good luck,’ John said, expecting Sherlock to have the wrong answer, again. Sherlock flashed him a grin and picked up the envelope that concealed the answers. He opened it and glanced at the cards, then smiled again. ‘I was right,’ he said.

‘What?’ John asked, ‘No you weren’t, you’re lying!’ 

‘See for yourself,’ Sherlock said, passing him the envelope. John opened it, and sure enough, it contained the cards for Professor Plum, the Observatory, and the Poison. ‘How-’ he gasped, ‘But you were rubbish at this game!’

‘I told you, I’m always the best and I always solve the mystery.’

‘You smug bastard,’ John said, still surprised, ‘How did you learn it so quickly? And you’d better not have cheated.’

By way of answer, Sherlock just grinned again and jumped out of his chair. ‘Booooooreeeed!’ he groaned, ‘I need a case, John!’ 

John thought for a minute. He had an idea, and if Sherlock could figure it out it might clear up a lot of things and, if he was lucky, his life might become just a tad simpler. He just wasn’t sure whether he wanted to draw attention to it…

‘Sherlock?’ John asked, ‘I… might have a case for you.’

‘Oh please tell me you don’t want me to spy on your sister’s drinking habits or something equally petty, John. I can’t waste my time with such trivia.’

‘Actually, Sherlock, it was about something we talked about last night.’

‘The man the killer was working for? Moriarty? John, if I had any leads on Moriarty I would not have spent the morning playing that ridiculous children’s game.’

‘Sherlock, you lost almost every game… Oh never mind. But no, I’m not talking about Moriarty. I’m meant the… other... thing.’

‘What other thing?’

Exasperated, John pushed up his sleeve, revealing Sherlock’s name. ‘This other thing,’ he said, ‘Sherlock, you said it yourself, nothing like this has ever happened before. You’re brilliant, if anyone could figure it out it’d be you.’

‘The soulmate tattoos are a frivolous pseudoscience at best, and there’s no reputable data on how they work. It would be pointless to try.’

‘Sherlock, I have to know why this happened to me.’

Sherlock considered, then said, ‘Fine then. I’ve nothing better to do at the moment. But the second I get a real case, I’m dropping this.’

John nodded, hoping that maybe Sherlock could help him get some answers.


End file.
